


Shallow Grave

by l0vebuzz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l0vebuzz/pseuds/l0vebuzz
Summary: How I would have wanted 15x19 to be.Of how Dean feels and ends up doing something extremely stupid.Of how he deserves to be saved and good things DO happen.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 78





	Shallow Grave

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted Dean to be IC-ish but also acknowledge his bond with Castiel for what it is, so I wrote this.
> 
> Please let me know what you think of it <3 Leave a kudos or comment and it will make my day for sure!  
> And consider reading my long AU "Of monsters & men", I care a lot about this project: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27210889/chapters/66467767

SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS 

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

(William Wandsworth)

Huff. Huff. His chest moves up and down, visibly. An attempt to swallow that knot in his throat. Too dry. Lips chapped. Humid grains insinuate in between his nails and fingertips. Reddened from the minimal but continuous loss of blood, the skin around his nails is starting to burn. His plaid shirt has gotten brown. A rabid dog, he sinks his arms and hands into the cold dark earth. 

An unfocused brown patch. The ground is softened by the rain. His vision blurred by his crying. He goes to wipe his face but he stops, his muddy hands would only make it worse. Tears stream down his cheeks, some are dripping from the tip of his nose down to his chin.

"Fuck." He shouts looking up.

The tall cypresses are grazing up the glaring late-afternoon sky. Dean remembers his eyes. The man pants and sees those steel-blue irises. 

The shirt sticks to his back. He digs and the smell of whiskey mixes with sweat.

His eyes had such radiance. In all of creation, he had never seen something so vibrant, something so pure. And how can he fathom, how can he stay put in front of the insufferable fact that those eyes have just been taken away from him. No sign of what was once for him to cherish. No body to mourn, no body to bury. Now forever removed from his life. 

His head feels heavy and his thoughts disperse in the atmosphere, running away from him. His face has gotten a grey color, except for the bags under his eyes that are reddened, of a shade that seems unreal, like when the sun meets the sea at the end of a long day. Burning forehead, he hasn't stopped drinking in three days. His liver is certainly begging, for a change.

"I don't care how long I live" he murmurs. "I don't care, I don't care." 

Memories get lost within his delirium. As he digs, the earth seems to mix up with the blood, with the tears, and he sees Castiel's face. Was it just a dream? Was he? But Dean remembers that voice that made him feel secure. He remembers those pink lips that he had yearned for in silence. If only. 

"Good things do happen Dean." He says with a smirk on his face. He talks to himself with no shame and no concern regarding his frantic stream of consciousness. He knows no planet earth, but remember once he had a mission. Now, it's all a struggle of voices imploding within him.

Dean can feel his heart pump in his brain. There’s a rave going on in his head. He doesn't know why he's laughing. He bends onto himself just a little more as his clenched fist finds support against the wet ground. He doesn't feel like laughing at all. Yet his body, somehow estranged from his heart, keeps digging mechanically. Dad's blunt little instrument is fighting a lost battle. 

Good things don't happen, not to him. 

And yet he remembers.The force and light. In the barn, Castiel was a vision that evening. The warmth. If the angel hadn't told him, Dean would have assumed that was his true form. 

The memories present themselves spasmodically as his finger sink into the ground once again. A feverish convulsion of the mind. The unexpressed desire to right his wrongs. For all the times that pride trumped vulnerability.

"You don't think you deserve to be saved" the angel had said, tilting his head so slightly. Yet, he had been. Many times. Even just whenever his heart had been filled with something more than that familiar apathy thanks to Cas. 

Dean remembers the long drives in the car. When the sun blinded his sight like a spiteful child. And Castiel next to him, probably asking some sort of weird question like "How important is lipstick to you, Dean?". Even all those times, Dean had been saved. Dean had been loved, Dean had been seen. Without knowing. He didn't know many things, especially about himself. But he knew he didn't deserve it. 

"No, I d-don't. I don't, i don't." A litany. Why would he deserve being saved? Heaven and hell have become just words to him. He hadn't been saved by heaven, and even more so not by God.

He had been saved by Castiel, the angel of Thursday. A creature so ancient they had seen the first fish trudging on the shore. “Big things for that fish, Castiel”. And Dean feels, his life isn’t much more than that fish’s. A pawn. And Castiel could have stepped on him.But his hands, molding and reviving him, had raised him from the pits of hell. It seems grotesque that he could outlive such creature, that something his mind just can’t conceive. His time has come too. He cannot envision life, or find strength in what remains behind. His time as come around. Dean lays down in his bed of soil. Bzzt. Bzzzt. His pocket is vibrating. He'd rather not read Sam’s name on the screen of his cellphone. And he knows it is him. 

His eyes close slowly, the earth enclosing him in a warm motherly hug. He inhales deeply. His breathing still uneven from digging so much, and yet the shallow grave is barely one foot deep. No shovel, just his hands. If he cannot feel the pain, he can certainly cause it to himself. Castiel had lied when he said Dean wasn't a killer. There's this mean voice in his head. You're just John Winchester's silly little killing machine. But since it happened he can't think, he can't- coordinate. He can't sleep. His mind is speaking in tongues. A series of delirious dreams take hold of his mind. A smile. _I love you._ That crying face encapsulated by the darkness. 

Bzzt. bzzt. His cellphone is still going off, but he cannot bring himself to even switch it off. Petrified. The sound of his pain defeats him. And if he heard Sam's voice, he probably wouldn't go through with it. As the sky gets darker and his hands get colder, he feels the sorrow that has come to stay, and the dejection smothers him whole.

To love and to lose, to yearn and never dare. Forever unable to articulate those three simple words. Despite all, there's a stubborn part of him that fights as his body is begging to shut down. What we are given in this life, is choosing what to die of. And maybe, that's enough. Pained, to be free. Pain, to want to hold him. The cold sweat has him shaking. Chills running through his body. And Dean holds him, in this fever dream of his. And he never said the words, if not just the ones that need to be forgotten. 

Then silence. Guilt. Of when the brightest star meets a sunken ship. And he sees those eyes and gives in. Weak. He can still hear his laugh. He twists inside his earthly bed. What else he's got, if not to wait for death? He crawls inside his mind. Just like he did on that day. Open wounds, rusty nails. He emerged from the ground into the boiling sun. Uncertain of this life, but equally of death. There was hell, and then... an empty field in Illinois. Just like this. Just for a moment, the gift of a delusion. A vision. A miracle. His face is burning up, his sight is not so clear. He only cares for those steel-blue eyes.

Dean savours the rigidity of his body. Even if he wanted to leave, by now he wouldn't be able to. His feet feel suddenly so warm but, amongst all this madness he knows his lips must have turned blue. In a sudden burst of energy, he takes off his plaid shirt. He can see the stars, far, far away. They're beginning to blur within the immensity of the landscape. Dean is just a small dot in the universe. It never felt more freeing, to just be. An unimportant finite dot in the magnificence of the universe. Without a mission to carry on. The cold wind cradles him and fights the consciousness away from his body. Most people fear death, Dean is patiently waiting for it. Immobile. If life is nothing but a cycle of surrogate deaths, a constant exchange between the shadows of the day and lights of the night, maybe if he dies he'll be reborn in someone's dream, whispering of those illusions he once believed in. It's all dark but Dean can't help and feel a blinding sun. Within him. It fills his chest. When life was fuller. When the soles of his shoes where consumed by walking along with Cas.

"Dean, stay with me." Winchester turns his head frantically. "Dean, you need to stay awake" He knows that voice. The warmth of it. Grave and slow, it's like syrup for his rotten throat. 

"C- cas?" He can barely hear himself. His voice is hoarse and sluggish. 

"You silly, self denying man, Dean Winchester." Somebody is forcing his plaid shirt on him. 

"Is it you?" As Dean opens his eyes, he's unable to focus on anything. There someone, something, moving next to him. It can't be him. Cas is dead. "I ain't tryina k-kill you, just leave... me be... you a shapeshift or... summin.."

His thoughts escape him. Whoever is trying to do something to him, can't do much but help speed up the process. But there's no stabbing, no biting, no scratching. Just warm arms around him. The presence is so warm, that Dean feels himself relax within its hold. 

"Dean, I'm gonna need you to open your eyes." 

Dean feels so happy to hear Castiel's voice. A tear is escaping and travelling down his cheek. His lower lip trembling. He tries to ask him if it is really him, his mouth is heavy and his tongue doesn't seem to respond to his pleads. It must be a hallucination.

"Mmmh..." it's all he manages to say.

"Dean, c'mon." A sudden impact against his cheek. His face is shaken. His eyes open, narrow and unfocused. He sees now, those blue steel eyes a few inches away from his. A hand is holding his face. 

"You need to collaborate, ok? You're very cold." The voice says as he realizes some more clothing has been wrapped around his body.

It's almost like he can see the scene from outside. First, he feels his body being removed from the wet humid ground, then those warm arms are supporting him, somehow. His arms and legs move almost imperceptibly, he's trying to put on a struggle with little to no results. He doesn't want to be saved. He doesn't deserve to be saved. Then he remembers those eyes. Was it a dream? How could Castiel be there?

"Calm, Dean. Stay, calm. Let me help."

"Is it you..." He manages to put together. "Cas... Cas?"

"It is me, Dean."

The angel's voice is fragmented, as he walks at a fast pace trying to anchor Dean against his body.

"Are you gonna keep your eyes open for me, Dean?"

Dean feels his eyes heavy. He's still unsure of what is real. For all he knows, he could still be lying in his shallow grave.

"You... were gone... t-the... deal... am I... seein things?"

"You're ok. I am ok. Jack brought me back." His eyelids are begging to shut. He looks up.

"We're at the car, Dean." Castiel's encourages him. 

"You're saving me... again?" The man hears the slow and prolonged crackling of the car door as it opens. 

"Contrary to your belief," Castiel lays Dean on the backseat. "You deserve to be saved."

"I need to say..."

Dean can't finish the sentence but he can see that face a little clearer now, he's scared to believe it because it all seems too good to be true. Castiel's hand graces his face and then shuts the door. For a second Dean fears that Castiel will disappear. That somehow he's got to the car by himself, or that Sam made a pact with the devil. Then, the door of the driver seat opens, and he can see Castiel's dark hair. He wants to touch it but he's so tired, and cold, and he wishes he could shut his eyes. Castiel starts the car and speeds towards the highway as fast as he can. Dean observes the busy angel, unable to believe what he sees. His eyes are fighting to stay open just for him.

"Are you awake Dean?" Castiel asks, turning his head so slightly to take a look at Dean, it's like he can read his mind.

"Yea."

"Good. Talk to me. Keep me company whilst I drive."

"I need to say..." His mouth curves up. " I love you."


End file.
